


the heart is a muscle the size of your fist (keep on loving)

by Quietbang



Series: The New York Avengers [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe- Sports, Bucky and Steve are both kind of messed up, Disability, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Humour, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Realistic depictions of disability, Veterans, Wheelchair Basketball, but isn't everyone?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-23 20:45:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1578992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quietbang/pseuds/Quietbang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve goes to his second practice, contemplates going back to school, and tries very hard not to fall apart. He also hits his first shot in a scrimmage, so that's exciting.</p><p>Bucky cleans Steve's blisters, tapes Jessica's shoulder, and totally does not cry while watching MASH. </p><p>The Avengers have a long way to go if they ever want to win nationals again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the heart is a muscle the size of your fist (keep on loving)

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second in a series; you may wish to read the first in order to understand some wheelchair basketball basics. Any terminology that is new for this fic will be explained in the endnotes.
> 
> Note: Edited, with new scenes added, 18/05/2014.

“What do you think you're good at?”

Steve caught himself before he could swear, instead forcing himself to smile at the nice dark-haired woman who was, after all, just trying to do her job. 

He shrugged. “I don't know.”

Her smile didn't waver, and she smoothed a hand over her corn-rowed hair, which had been secured in an impeccable low bun.  
“Well,” she pressed, “When you were young, what were your favourite subjects?”

He shrugs again. “Art, I guess. English literature.”

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “I thought for sure you were going to say PE.”

Steve smiled back, and it was nearly genuine this time. “Nah. I was tiny, I was shi-- sorry, I mean I sucked at that stuff.”

“I see,” she glances down at his file. “Have you thought about going back to school? We can help you with your applications, I don't know if that's something you'd be interested in.” 

“Maybe,” Steve said after a moment. “I'll think about it. I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?"

“Janelle.”

“Janelle,” Steve repeated slowly. “You probably do stuff like this all the time, right? I'm just- not really sure where to start. If you could maybe give me a hand...” He trails off, smiles his best _apple pie and America_ smile. She probably sees right through it, but is polite enough not to comment.

She nods. “Of course, that's definitely something I can provide. We do this kind of thing all the time- it's my favourite part of my job, really." She returned his smile with a geniuine one of her own. 

"Well," Steve considered, "It's probably better than watching grown men write career aptitude tests designed for tenth graders, anyway." 

She raised her eyebrows, but her smile was as warm as ever. "Is that a judgement on me, or on the questionnaires?" 

She might have been flirting, but there was no intent behind it. A more cynical part of Steve wondered if that was part of their training- crack a few jokes, smile in the right place, they'll open up to you before you know it.

Steve smirked a little. “I would never dream of insulting you, Janelle. Besides, you're doing me a solid. I always wanted to go to school, and- well, I'm not quite as sure now, but it's worth a damn try.”

Steve had only ever intended to serve 3 years, the bare minimum for education benefits. Bucky had never been as keen on education as Steve was,that had been Sam, and they hall taken to the army in different ways. It hadn't taken long for Steve to realise that he was in it for the long haul, as long as Sam and Bucky were, anyway. 

After Sam got hurt, it became even more important. Someone had to watch Bucky's back, after all. 

The point is, 3 years turned to five years, and then eight, and then ten before he knew it. He was 28, now, older and a heck of a lot wiser. Ten years of service had won him an impeccable service record, Veteran's health benefits, a disability pension, and ten inches of titanium holding together his spinal column. 

Janelle smiled. “We could start now, if you'd like. Unless you'd rather wait until next session, think about it some more...?”

Steve shrugged.

He could go to art school. He could make something of himself, find out once and for all if his scribblings had any promise or if they were just that- scribblings. Steve might have been a little afraid of the answer, but, but--

It was always at that point that his innate pragmatism cut off his trin of thought. What would he even do with an art degree? Teach, maybe, he could see himself teaching. He had a harder time seeing students respecting their crippled art teacher. 

He shook himself out of his reverie to see Janelle looking at him with concern. “Next time,” He said, "Our time's almost up anyways." 

Steve had also reached his quota of thinking about the future for one day. That had been the worst thing about rehab, how they were always forcing him to think of the future and how he would do this and that, how he would do laundry and cook by himself, how he would get to work or to therapy- all of those questions and possibilities when he was still on morphene, still cathed, and still having trouble with his hand-eye coordination. 

These days, if they don't want him to think of the future, they want him to think of the past, to parse the ways it invades his everyday life, to explain in cold hard words how it reaches its rusty claws through his still healing brain and scrapes him out whole.

His PT kept congratulating him on his progress in rebuilding his strength, but the truth was that he relished the pain that came with training. It was so carefully anchored in the here and now.

Janelle cleared her throat and startled him out of his thoughts. “I'll have some information for you the next time you come in.”

He had to go straight to practice from the VA. While he was waiting for the bus he pulled out his phone and shot off a quick text to Bucky to let him know that he wouldn't be home before it was time to go to the gym, and that if he wanted to meet him after practice with his kit they could maybe go out for dinner. He then quickly shoved his phone back into his pocket before he could see the reply- it didn't make sense that he would feel a streak of anxiety about this, as though his lifelong partner might suddenly decide he was sick of him on the basis of one unwelcome dinner invitation, but-- well. He had stopped trying to make sense of his feelings, lately. 

The bus pulled up, and the driver frowned when he saw him, not attempting to hide his impatience. 

"Gotta get on at the back," he said. 

Steve nodded. He knew the drill, and watched neutrally as the bus driver pushed himself out of his seat, marched to the middle of the bus, and ordered the kissing teenagers out of the accessible seats, frowning as he did so. He then let the ramp down. It let out a piercing and repetitive shriek that caused people on the sidewalk to stop and stare. 

Steve did not blush. He was used to this, he was.  
If he said that enough times, it would have no choice but to become true.

When he got off at the Y, the same ritual occurred in reverse. The besotted teenagers returned to the accessible seats. 

He pushed his way into the facility, cursing a blue streak as he tried to manipulate two sets of doors at once. 

"I got it, hold on," Steve heard a female voice say behind him. He began to assure her that no, no help was needed, when she came into his eyeline and he saw that she was limping in a somewhat precarious way, and he followed the line of her yoga pants up to where carbon fibre met flesh. 

She smiled at him, and pushed her short blond hair out of her face. 

"You here for the wheelchair basketball?"

Steve nodded. 

Her grin widened. "Carol Danvers. You're Steve, aren't you?"

He nodded again. Seeing his confusion, Carol explained "Barnes and Sam have talked about you a lot. I mean a lot. It's kinda sweet, really."

He nodded. He seemed to be doing a lot of that. Casting around for something to say, he decided on "I didn't see you here last week?"

She waved a hand. "Oh, I'm actually playing varsity for the University of Illinois most of the time, but our season just ended. I figured I'd come back to Nick's practices while I'm back in the city."

"There are varsity wheelchair basketball teams?" Steve raised his eyebrows. 

"Not many, but sure. Wish there were more, to be honest. It seems a bit more impressive declaring yourself a member of the best college team in the country when there are more than four teams, you know?"

Steve didn't, but smiled as though he did. 

"Anyway, we better go get changed. Unless he's softened in his old age, you _do not_ want to see what Nick will do if you're late onto the court."

Steve nodded, and pushed into the men's changeroom. The changeroom, at least, had a mechanised door button, which begged the question of why the rest of the facility doors didn't. Steve was beginning to get really tired of having to ask those questions. 

He glanced around the locker room before he pulled off his shirt. He had always been self-conscious, never quite comfortable with the hard lines of lithe muscle that boot camp and a very late puberty had given him. In a way, the embarassment he now felt at his naked body was more familiar than anything else. Before, though, he had just been small. Now he was scarred all over, washboard abs atrophied below his pecs. His stomach now had a slight paunch, and though he knew that this was an inevitability brought forth by his inability to tone muscles over which he had no motor control, it still made him uncomfortable. 

His arms and torso were scarred; irregular scars left by burning metal and shrapnel jostling for space with highly regimented surgical scars, the tissue nested above his collarbone remnants of his ventilator, while the straight and deep scars along his spinal column were accompanied by light dots on either side from stitches and staples. 

He had _great_ shoulder muscles, though.

He tried to focus on that as he changed his clothes, ignoring the discolourations and malformations that the unforgiving flourescent lights seemed to highlight. Changing your shirt shouldn't really be a high-stress experience. 

He looked up when he heard a whistle from the doorway. 

"They sure did a number on you, didn't they, pretty boy?" It was Tony. Of course it was Tony. 

Steve shrugged. "Figure you're smart enough to see that for yourself, Stark."

Tony smirked. "Course I am, I'm not blind. Like I said, you're still pretty. You must have been gorgeous back before all this."

That rankled Steve, because it might have been true, but it wasn't appropriate. "Were you prettier when you had a foot?"

Tony let out a surprised laugh. "Touché, my friend. Touché."

He began pulling off his own shirt, distressed cotton stretching over firm muscle. As he did so (and maybe Steve was staring, but a guy could _look_ , couldn't he? There's no law against looking. Bucky would understand. Probably.) he revealed deep scarring of his own, centred on his chest. 

Steve nodded at the mark. "Pacemaker?"

Tony grinned, showing his gums. "Something like that."

"Should you really be playing sports?"

Tony shrugged.

He pulled his jeans off, folded them neatly, the removed his prosthetic. His naked lower limb, clad only in a protective sock, looked faintly ridiculous. 

"You'll want to put another shirt on," he advised Steve, "I think I heard some of the other guys in the hallway."

Steve did as he was told, before pausing as he reached his jeans. How the _hell_ was he going to do this? At home he was used to bracing against a wall while sitting in bed, pulling his pants as far as his thighs before he transferred to his day chair and let the moment help pull them up. 

He unbuttoned his fly, let down his zipper, before deciding that the easiest thing to do would be to shift from side to side in his chair, pushing lightly against his sideguards to pull the fabric off his thighs. 

It took several minutes, and when he had successfully removed the he looked up to see Tony staring at him, not bothering to hide his amusement. "How's that working out for you, there?"

"Fine," Steve said stiffly. 

"Most of the class ones change at home, but I guess that's good practice for when we're competing and you have to do the same thing, only in a van and on four hours of sleep."

"I wasn't at home," Steve said simply. "I think it might give my VA worker a bad impression about my mental state if I just start wearing sweats everywhere."

"Fair point," Tony said, inclining his head as though Steve has said something particularly insightful. 

"Tony, leave the guy alone and let him get changed," A soft voice said from the corner, and Steve looked up, startled as he noticed that Bruce Banner had come into the room without Steve even noticing. He must be getting soft, and the thought filled him with a sudden and intense pang of acrid anxiety. 

Bruce smiled at him. "How've you been, Steve?"

Steve shrugged. He really wished people would just let him put on his pants in peace. 

Bruce seemed to accept that, and continued changing. Unlike Tony, he didn't remove his prosthesis. 

Steve figured that that was probably more difficult to do standing up if you didn't have full hands.  
Bruce's hands were strange and slightly clawed, as though all of his fingers had fused into merely two- but he was strong, and fast, and it didn't seem to slow him down much. Steve wasn't sure what could cause hands like that, and he certainly wasn't going to ask. 

Once he was changed, he sat awkwardly for a moment, unsure of what he should do next. He knew he was going to need to tape his hands, but he had only a rudimentary knowledge of boxing taping and a spool of waterproof athletic tape to guide him. 

He looked at his hands. The blisters from last week had increased in size slightly, actually, and when he was writing their rent check that morning he had noticed with surprise that they had started weeping pus-streaked blood onto his checkbook. He would have to soak them again tonight, with maybe some iodine for good measure. 

"Here, give me that." Tony crossed the space between them in two easy strides, limping heavily as the ground came in contact with his stump. 

"Hands out, spread your fingers as wide as you can, thanks." The older man made short work of his hands, and watched Steve wiggle his fingers a few times before declaring the job perfect and ordering him into the equipment room to transfer. 

Practice was somehow even more brutal than the previous week's. Carol sat tall in her chair, as did Jessica, who was back from her injury-induced sabbatical and whose shoulder had been carefully taped to prevent re-injury. Steve recognised the bright pink camo rocktape as Bucky's, though he supposed it was possible it was standard in all AT kits. He kinda doubted it, though. 

The high-class women dwarfed him every time he went up against them, and in a way it was comforting. Steve had spent an awful lot of his life looking up to beautiful women, and it feels awfully familiar now.

Chair skills are the same, with an added clover leaf individual skill that seems impossible, frankly. Every time Steve thought he had the hang of it, the music that was blaring from the speakers would stop and Nick would shout for them to try doing it twice as fast. Every so often, Steve would find himself having to stop and adjust himself in his chair so he didn't feel like he was going to topple over on his face. 

Once, he glanced over to see Clint doing the same thing, and he felt an incredible relief that this might not just be something he was bad at because of his lack of experience. 

He was allowed to scrimmage this time, after the pick and roll practice goes less terribly than it did last week and he very nearly manages to seal Jessica into the key. He only gets just inside the block, but it is enough for her to sink the shot, and she laughs when she thanks him, pushes her long brown ponytail back over her shoulder. 

The scrimmage was... okay. He put a few shots up, even hit one of them, but he knew that the others were going easy on him. When Thor, Tony, or Jessica, or even Clint, put up a shot, the nearest defender would grind their chair, wave their hand in their face, shout, do anything and everything to stop them from hitting the shot. When Steve did it, they took a respectful half-push away before raising an arm in his direction, watching him hurl the ball off his chest like proud parents. 

By the time practice was over, he was bleeding through the tape. As Bucky puttered around, handing out ice and checking rocktape, he glanced at Steve's hands and winced. 

"You wanna take that off or should I?"

Steve frowned. "I'm not sure I want either of us to take it off."

Bucky laughed. "It might come easier if you soak it. It'll still hurt like hell, though."

Half an hour later, they were both sat in the mens changeroom, Bucky watching him with a slight smile as the water in the sink turned a rusty pink. The others were mostly gone, although Clint was still sitting in the corner, ice packed around his lymph nodes. 

"Autonomic dysreflexia," He had explained to Steve. "I don't really sweat since the accident, which would be great and all, but it turns out it's actually a bit dangerous. Gotta cool myself down the old fashioned way."

"Wouldn't sweating be the old fashioned way?"

"Don't be so picky, Steve," Clint had laughed as he fiddled with his phone. "Nat wants to know if you two want to come out for dinner. I think we're getting Indian."

Steve glanced at Bucky, who raised his eyebrows. 

Steve glanced back at Clint. "I think we might just stay in tonight, but thank her for the invite."

"Sure thing," Clint said easily. "Text me if you change your mind." He tossed the now-melted ziplock bags of ice into the trashcan by the sink. "See you guys later."

"See ya," Bucky said, "Tell Nat to text me if that elbow gets worse, she really shouldn't be pushing on it too much."

"Will do, but she probably won't."

"Yeah, I know," Bucy sighed. "Tell her anyway."

Then they were alone in the changeroom, and Bucky threaded his good hand through his hair. "What was that about? I thought you wanted to go out for dinner."

Steve raised an eyebrow at him. "Not if you don't, I don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"Yeah, but I'm not stupid. It turns out I kind of know you pretty well."

"And?"

"And you're limping, and you've got those lines around your mouth that you only get when you're hurting or stressed." He paused for a moment and then added thoughtfully "Or both."

"Well, alright then, Doctor Phil," Bucky said. "I still wouldn't have minded going out, if you wanted to."

"Yeah, but I kinda changed my mind." This was only half true, but Steve knew that when he was in pain, Bucky didn't like crowds. To be fair, Buck didn't like crowds most of the time, didn't like anything that interrupted his sightlines to the exits and potential threats, but this was especialy true when he was hurting. 

Hurting more than usual, anyway. Steve had read Bucky's medical records- it had seemed like a fair trade after the months Bucky had spent making all of Steve's medical decisions for him, and Bucky had offered as soon as Steve hinted that the necessary violaton of his privacy had bothered him- and he knows that Bucky was almost always hurting. 

Bucky nodded easily and let the subject drop. "Want me to peel that tape off, now?"

Steve sighed. "Yeah, sure."

Bucky peeled the tape off with a surprising gentleness, holding the hand in place with his prosthetic arm as he worked away the tape with his other one. 

His gentleness would have surprised strangers, anyway. Steve knew better. Bucky may not always have been the visibly scarred, tattooed menace that he looks today, but he has always been tough. That toughness only emphasised the overwhelming gentleness Bucky was capable of, especially when it was directed at Steve.

Being the amin target of all that focused _care_ had always managed to simultaneously charm and annoy Steve, because he wasn't made of glass and he never had been.. 

Steve tried not to wince as the tape, which was stained black with tire grit, came clear. His hands bled freely, rivulets of blood meeting embedded tire grit and turning dark and sticky. 

"It's probably better to go home, anyway." Bucky said after a moment, his voice casual. "You really need to soak those hands."

They end up in their living room, take-out burgers in front of them as they watch a MASH repeat on the History Channel. Sometime in the last ten years the channel had stopped broadcasting alarmist 'documentaries' about Hitler and started trafficking exclusively in programs about aliens and flea markets, but it was nice to know that their obsessive commitment to MASH repeats remained. 

Steve's hands were soaking in a bowl of hot salt water and iodine, and Bucky had his prosthesis off, rubbing Tiger Balm Liniment into the tightly knotted muscle and scar tissue of his shoulder joint. His leg was propped on Steve's chair, while Steve himself had transferred onto the couch and was supporting most of his torso with Bucky's good side.  
Halfway through the program, Bucky finished his burger and lit two cigarettes, passing one to Steve reflexively. Steve smirked at him and gestured to his wet hands with his chin. 

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Open up then, you big dope."

Steve opened his mouth and Bucky stuck the cigarette between his lips. 

He smoked it until the ash was dangling of precariously off the end, and he decided that for everyone's safety he had better dry off at least one of his hands so he could use the ashtray. 

"You're the only person I know who would smoke _more_ after they'd been on a venitlator," Bucky observed, his dry tone not quite hiding a touch of concern.

Steve smirked. "Well, clearly God's not ready for me to die just yet. If I can count on that, why deprive myself?"

Bucky laughed. "I guess that's fair. But seriously, your lungs don't drain properly anymore, because of the-"

"--I _know_ , Bucky." Steve said sharply. Bucky was silent after that, and Steve felt as though he would choke. 

"I fucking hate this," Steve said in a low voice. "I just want one thing- not even a big thing, just a damn _smoke_ , for crying out loud- that doesn't come back to the chair, or my spine, or my fucking- my fucking--" he couldn't get the words out, and he was not going to cry, not here, not in front of Bucky who wakes up screaming or shaking every night and who does so much for him anyway, who doesn't need any of Steve's demons on his shoulders.

"I know," Bucky said, and if he was crying Steve did him the courtesy of pretending not to notice. "I know, and I'm sorry, and I wish you hadn't-" He stopped abruptly. 

"-Hadn't what?"

"Nothing." 

"Buck." Steve said flatly. "I know what nothing sounds like. That ain't it."

"You saved me." He said after a moment. "That's why you're like this. Because you were stupid enough to think that I- that _anything_ mattered more than you. Than you being-- safe." He stops again. "Fuck, why I am I so fucking bad at this?"

Steve shrugged, and they were both silent for a long moment. On the screen, Hawkeye made a wry remark about another man's open intestines.

"I'd do it again," Steve said, and stared fixedly at the screen. "Even knowing. I'd do it a thousand times."

"I know you would, Steve," Bucky said after a moment, "But you never were that clever."

**Author's Note:**

> Clover leafs are a type of chair skill that help improce agility: they involve pushing straight out of a square of pylons, turning 45 degrees, backing into the centre of the square, turning 45 degrees, pushing out, etc. They are so called because your wheels on the ground should make roughly the pattern of a clover leaf.  
> Putting on pants while paraplegic (ooh, look at all that alliteration!) is not actually terribly difficult, but this Steve is very recently post-injury and has yet to work out all of the tricks of the trade. Basketball will probably help with that.  
> There are in fact several varsity college wheelchair basketball teams in the States, most notably at the University of Illinois, the University of Alabama, and the University of Texas. There are others, however, only three or four universities have single-sex women's teams. It is possible for a female athelte to play for a co-ed team, and they earn a point deduction for doing so (i.e., someone who is classed as a 3.5 will play as a 2.5 if they are playing co-ed).  
> Pink camo rocktape totally exists, and it is awesome. Rocktape, for the uninitiated, is a type of kinesiology tape.  
> Shoulder injuries are very common in wheelchair basketball, and I can count on one hand the number of tournaments I have played without my shoulder's taped in some way, either as a preventative or theraputic measure.  
> Autonomic dysreflexia often occurs in individuals with high-level complete spinal cord injuries, and can make playing sports very dangerous as your body is unable to automatically regulate your core temperature. To compensate for this, athletes with the condition will apply ice to their lymph nodes, armpits, and groin, to bring their core temperature down. They will do this at the end of practice or at half-time of a game, generally.  
> It is, in fact, quite dangerous and dumb to smoke if you have a thoracic spinla cord injury, as it is more difficult for your body to drain fluid from your lungs and you are more prone to respiratory ailments. That said, Bucky doesn't really have a leg to stand on (tee hee) as it is dumb to smoke even if you don't have an SCI. Don't smoke, kids!


End file.
